


In the Dark We Can Dream

by princesskay



Series: Claire/Frank Missing Scenes [7]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s04e07 Chapter 46, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 18:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12305295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: "That was before everything."December 31st, 2012. New Years Eve. The Conways' video reminds Claire and Francis of what they once had, and what they've lost.





	In the Dark We Can Dream

“Auld Lang Syne” had rang out through the hall, and confetti had rained down upon them as their lips had met with a secret, shared promise. Watching the Conways’ video of that New Year’s Eve, Claire can still hear the echo of that old chorus through her brain. She can remember each detail, down to the scent of his cologne, and the faint tang of alcohol on his breath when their lips met. She can recall the euphoria, the belief that anything was possible in that moment - and  the half-drunken joy as they rode home in the back of the limo, his hands scouring every inch of her. 

He had whispered to her to ignore the furtive glances of the driver in the rear view mirror as he slipped his hand beneath her dress to find her wet and eager. She had muffled her moans in his neck as she tried not to visibly writhe through every spasm of pleasure. When they finally arrived home, he had taken her directly to the bedroom where they made love until exhaustion and the stupor of alcohol took over. 

It all comes back with perfect clarity as she presses play on the Conways’ video of that evening three years past one more time. 

Before tonight, she hadn’t considered the past in anyway but as an objective reference -  _ this is where we were, this is where we are, this is where we want to be _ . Whatever romantic and whimsical emotions that were attached to that New Year’s Eve had gotten lost in the chaos that is broken promises, crushing ambitions, and mutually dealt wounds. 

Until now. 

Claire snatches her phone from the sheets, and goes into her contacts to find Francis’ number. Within her, a quiet voice mocks her for having to call her husband while he sits no more than ten yards across the hall from her. 

The line clicks when he picks up. “You’re up late.” 

“Go to the Conways’ blog. December 31st, 2012.” 

She listens as the line rustles under his movement. His fingers tap the laptop keys before the video starts playing from the beginning again. 

“Hannah’s last moments of 2012 …” 

The video plays all the way through to the end before she hears Francis draw in a deep breath. 

“That was before everything.”

“I know.” 

She blinks, expecting a response. Instead, the line falls silent. 

“Francis? Are you still there?” 

She listens intently for a moment before realizing he must have abandoned the phone. As she takes the phone away from her ear, the doorknob turns, confirming her suspicions. 

Francis’ frame fills the doorway.

She drops the phone to the bed, and plucks her glasses from her nose to meet his eyes unhindered. 

His gaze is burning, treacherous. She hasn’t seen this fiery determination in some time, at least not since he’d woken after the surgery. 

Finally he speaks, his voice a low, grinding baritone that carves out a lethal promise, “We’re going to destroy them.” 

A strange mix of heady excitement and piercing nostalgia fills her chest. 

“Yes, we are.” She says.

He nods, his eyes narrowing around the swallowing black of his pupils. The moments that follow are silent, yet heavy, and she can sense each second scraping by. There’s so much more to his statement than a political promise -  such strange, violent intimacy in this midnight declaration. 

Turning, he eases the door shut with a muted click. 

Beneath her ribs, her pulse spikes, trepidation and exhilaration battling for focus. 

“Francis?” 

His fingers linger on the doorknob for a strained moment before he turns back to face her. His expression is somber and intuitive, reading her like a well-worn book.  Slowly, methodically he treads across the room, only allowing her to breathe out when he pauses at the end corner of the bed. Focusing on the satin comforter, he slides his fingertips pensively across the fabric. 

“Do you remember that night as clearly as I do?” He asks.

She lowers her head as fragmented images and sensation cluster at her mind. Her voice is barely audible, “Yes.” 

“It’s incredible …” He murmurs, “... that that much could change in three years.” 

“I was thinking the same thing.” 

She lifts her chin to look at him, not  prepared for the weight of his gaze, or their misty, longing quality. Silence stretches between them while, inside her head, her heart hammers out a panicked rhythm. 

She’s spent so much time running away from him within the past year, only to willingly trap herself inside these walls with him once again. The irony is staggering. 

“You know, while I was in the coma after I was shot, I had these vivid, terrifying hallucinations.” He says, interrupted her scattered thoughts. “You were there.” 

She clears her throat.  “I was?” 

“You were …. Fading in and out of the crowd, running away from me … I think you were daring me to catch you.” 

“It was a hallucination. I’m sure it didn’t mean anything.” 

He tilts his head in consideration. “Maybe.” 

Breaking away from the end of the bed, he sits down on the edge of the mattress next to her. 

“Claire, if we’re going to do this, we can’t question one another.” 

“I know. I’m not questioning you.” 

“We have to be strong…. Just as strong as we were in the that video.” 

Claire glances away, her tongue darting across her lips. The weight of her laptop lifts from her knees, and she looks up to see him setting it aside to lay his hands in it’s place. The gentle warmth of his palms settling over her knees offers the first intimate touch she can recall since his return from the hospital. And though the gesture is slight, her whole body clenches - not out of revulsion, but _ fear _ . Fear that she’ll wilt and conform to his whims just as she always has. Fear that if she lets him back in now, his teeth marks will never again fade from her flesh. 

Fear that things won’t be different - and they had _ promised _ things would be different. 

“Claire, I feel  _ good _ .” He whispers, fiercely, “Like we can take on the world, and win. Don’t you feel the same?” 

She lifts her chin, meeting his his bold gaze with her own. “Yes, I do.” 

A small frown twists his brow as his gaze searches her expression, as if rooting around in her brain for evidence of a lie. 

“Have I done something to make you think I don’t?” She asks, pressing indignation into her tone. 

His gaze softens, and even in the dim light of the bedroom she can make out the poignancy in his eyes. His fingers rise from her knee to graze her cheek, sparking warmth down her jaw and throat. 

“There’s a lot of things I would change if I could-”

“Don’t.” The word chokes from her throat as she turns her cheek away from his caress. 

His fingers curl into his palm, forming a wounded fist. Even without looking into his eyes, she can sense the hurt rolling from him. 

“The past is the past.” She whispers, firmly. “We can’t let ourselves be weighed down by what’s been done. We can’t change it. What we have to do now is-”

“Claire, please. Can we stop pretending for one moment, and be honest with one another?” 

“I am being honest.” 

“We haven’t been honest since that fight right before you left. Sure, it was ugly, but at least we both said what we’d been wanting to say for months. And if that’s what you’re feeling right now, then say it. I can take it, Claire.” 

“It’s  _ not  _ how I feel.” She retorts, the words lunging from her throat like a knife. 

She can feel the flush of heat at her throat, afraid he can see it too. She draws in a deep breath, and gathers her composure with a lifted chin. 

“When I came back, you told me not to worry about us.”

He gives a clipped nod, his jaw clenching. “I know.” 

“And I thought insecurity bores you.” 

“It does.” 

Their gazes clash as a quiet battle of wills takes over the verbal one. There had been a time when she would have let the conversation end that way because they both knew it was a pathetic waste of effort - but maybe they’re not as strong as they used to be. Maybe he has a true reason to be concerned. 

“Francis, let’s focus on the campaign.” She says, “On destroying the opposition, just like you said. Our time is better spent planning for victory than examining our past defeats. Just because things are different than they used to be doesn’t mean-”

Her rallying statement is cut off when he leans in suddenly, his fingers clutching her nape to drag her mouth against his in a fierce kiss. She freezes, her fingers catching limply at the front of his shirt. 

The last time he touched her so fiercely, she was begging him to hurt her, and he was angry enough to react. But this kiss is unlike that unpleasant hotel encounter in every way; it’s more like that evening captured by the Conways’ video, when the world was before them and they had everything to lose. 

_ That was before everything.  _

The bruising kiss breaks off abruptly. His breath gusts against her cheek, and his fingers curl tight around her knee. 

“Francis-” She breathes out his name, her voice warped and shaking with distress. 

His fingers slip from her neck, but cling to her shoulder. His breaths punctuate the silence, counting out the seconds as her lips burn and her mind turns with memory. 

“I’m know. We promised things would be different.” He says. 

“We did. And they are.” 

His gaze tracks it’s way back to hers. She wants to reject the yearning in his eyes that draws her in, that reminds her of the days when they had fewer scars. She wants to believe that they’ve always been autonomous instead of symbiotic, that they can coexist without becoming so inextricably dependent upon one another. But perhaps autonomy only extends so far. 

He clears his throat, as if to usher the need from his chest. “I should go.” 

She smooths her hand across her cheek where he’d touched her, willing the lingering tingling sensation to dissipate. But some deep, buried longing won’t let it end right here. 

“Francis.” His name rasps from her throat before she can stop herself. 

He turns, his gaze querying, if not hopeful. 

“I had dreams too … nightmares while you were in the hospital.” She whispers, “I dreamed you died.” 

“Oh … Claire.” 

Crossing the room back to her, he reaches out to grasp her shoulders gently. 

“It was … nauseating.” She says, “I woke up in a cold sweat. It felt so real.” 

“For a little while, I thought maybe I was dead, too.” 

“I wouldn’t have wished that on you even though …” 

“I know.” 

She nods, letting out a slow breath. “I know we haven’t discussed … before in Texas when-” 

“And we don’t have to. You’re here now, that’s what matters.” 

His gaze clings fervently to hers for a long moment before he draws her into a cautious embrace. She allows herself to lean into his chest, to absorb these brief seconds of blissful contact. She hadn’t realized before this moment how long it’s been since anyone touched her this way, tenderly and without reservation. 

There’s something in the skin and the brain that longs for this touch, that will starve and wither without it. And she, despite her many walls and defenses and battle cries, cannot deny the most basic of human needs. 

Emboldened, Francis winds his arms tighter around her, and turns his mouth down against her neck. His breath rustles against her skin with a shallow, shaky inhale. 

“Claire …” He mutters. 

Longing, and guilt, and need, and questions are all bound up in that single syllable, the many pressing urges they’ve pushed down for so long breaking to the surface. 

She leans back, preparing herself to brutally cut off her burgeoning, sympathetic compulsions, but his mouth captures hers once more. 

Not so long ago, she hadn’t had to convince herself she still loved him. Sex had been a quick, downhill rush into satisfaction instead of an arduous climb toward completion that’s borne of a determination to prove something rather than to simply enjoy it. There had been times when he touched her until she was dizzy and weak from climax, so weak she couldn’t think straight. And deep inside, beneath the strife and resentment, she misses those easy days, those gradual caresses, those euphoric moments of bliss - if only for their youthful naivety, their absence of anger and dread. 

She leans forward, as if propelled by a force outside her body, or perhaps just so deeply buried inside her that she doesn’t recognize it any longer. The pang of hunger etched across every inch of her skin turns to a quivering ache that sends her mouth parting and trembling to return his ardent kisses. 

A groan spills from her throat as his hand clutches her breast through the silk fabric of her pajamas, his touch coarse with raging need.  He rubs at her nipple, chafing the tender flesh with the silk and bringing it to aching hardness. Her whimpers are muted beneath the fiery kiss, but her arching body is all the language he needs.

He tugs the buttons of her blouse open until the silk fabric parts from her chest, exposing the swells of her breasts, her nipples already standing hard and dusky pink. He claims one in his palm, and massages the supple flesh until she’s shuddering against him, a gasp tearing their mouths apart. 

His fingers clutch her cheek, stopping her from pulling away. 

“Do you want this?” He asks, his voice a scraped, demanding whisper. 

She purses her lips over a weak sound. She twists her chin away from his, but his fingers clutch her jaw, forcing her eyes back to his. 

“Tell me to leave right now, and I will.” He insists, though his thumb rubs at her nipple, threatening to chafe her raw. 

She draws in a shuddering breath, and shakes her head. 

“No?” He asks, “No what? No you don’t want this?” 

She shakes her head again, clenching her jaw against a moan. “Stay.” 

Their gazes clash, realization and need rising like a tidal wave in both of them. They both know that in moments, they’ll be crushed and this compulsion will be gone - but moments are all they need. 

He strips the shirt from her arms, and tosses it to the floor. His mouth captures hers once more while his palms ride up her ribs to clutch her breasts. His fingers are coarse and heavy with need, but she welcomes the burning patches that crop up across her skin in his wake. The slight pain mixing with the hot, melting desire churning through her is all the aphrodisiac she needs to ignore the warning signals ringing in her brain. 

Pushing her down against the pillow, he drags his mouth from hers, and blazes a trail of branding kisses down her throat and chest to her breasts. His lips brush against one engorged nipple, twisting a low cry from the back of her throat. He takes it in his mouth, lathering her sensitive skin with rough strokes of his tongue and the suction of his lips. 

She arches beneath him, fingers clutching at his shoulder and the collar of his shirt. Heat slithers through her, need that she’d tried to forget sparking from dormancy to life as if it had never been gone. 

He moves to her other breast, barely warming it with tongue before clamping his lips tight around it. As his mouth levels her defenses, his fingers creep beneath the waistband of her pants to clutch her bare hip. 

Whimpers crowd at the back of her throat as he allows her nipple to slide free of his mouth, and he shifts downward to graze his lips over her her ribs swelling against the thin veneer of flesh. His mouth travels along each ridge until he reaches the quivering plane of her belly. His kisses burn hotter and hotter as he makes his way to the edge of the fabric barrier between his mouth and her gushing, aching center. 

Here, he pauses, allowing his intentions to sink in - giving her the chance to ask him to leave. 

Within her body, her brain is screaming at her to stop this regression into dependency and desire, but the heat throbbing from between her thighs is visceral and potent. She does not move as he peels the silky fabric from her hips and thighs, and allows the pants to slide from her ankles. 

His breath swirls over her bare hip, a simple, yet erotic distraction from the logical objections dwindling to a whisper in the back of her mind. His thumb drags over the jut of her bone, and down into the crease at the top of her thigh. 

Her teeth clamp over her lower lip, silencing the cry pressing at the back of her tongue. 

He eases her legs open, rousing the quivering pangs of arousal building there. Everything clenches hard against the vulnerability, sending heat racing up and down her body. The dull ache between her thighs turns to a piercing throb beneath the soft, warm gust of his breath. She grabs at the sheets, unwilling to wrap her fist around his hair as she longs to. 

He grasps her hips, pinning her to the mattress, as the stream of his breath preludes the wet stroke of his tongue. She twists against the weight of his palms, last minute panic tracking cold down her breastbone - but whatever second thoughts can form in the space of a moment are instantly eclipsed by the surge of blinding pleasure that takes her when his mouth touches sensitive, aching flesh. 

The strangled cry incubating in her throat rushes free, a full, long, hoarse moan that shatters the strained silence of the room. Her hips buck against his grip as he drags his tongue against her, but he holds her slender hips down with dismaying ease. 

Her fists curl white around the sheets. Resistance travels dully through her brain, fading to obsolescence with every revolution of his tongue around her clitoris. She can feel the tightening between her hips, the pleasure racing swift and hot through her veins, the crumbling pieces of her walls turning to dust. She turns limp and quivering against his caress, the betraying parts of her body and brain eager for the pleasure she knows he can inflict. 

But the pleasure is almost second-hand to the momentary amnesia. In these few white seconds of abandon, she can’t recall the resentment, the wounds, the wasteland. She exists in this tiny, liminal space of bliss captured in the quivering bundle of nerves and tender flesh beneath his tongue. Behind her eyelids, there’s no anger, no campaign, no White House. Just them, their skin melding into one, his mouth feasting on her arousal, his ears collecting her pleasured moans. 

And when that festering need comes rising to the surface to claim her, it’s like infection vacating a wound, the blood at last rushing clean and healing to the damage. She bucks against him, the white and brilliant light of pleasure flashing behind her eyes, the spasms rolling through her in powerful, buffeting strokes. It courses through her over and over, each spasm lingering in her muscle and bone, and chipping away some small part of her that’s clung onto misery and anger for too long. 

When she collapses against the satin sheets, her body humming and weak, she keeps her eyes firmly shut. Her gasping breaths rake across her ears, loud and abrasive against the whispers of guilt filling up the recently vacated spaces in her mind. 

She hears the rustle of his clothing as he undresses. When he lays his hands on her again, they’re like fire, burning straight through her skin and into her bone. He turns her onto her stomach, prompting her to finally open her eyes. Her eyelids flutter open in time to see him snatch the pillow from against the headboard. He pushes it underneath her hips, elevating her against him as his weight settles against her backside. 

A low gasp rushes from her throat at the dull, rigid pressure of his cock against her. The flesh is hot with exhilaration. She thinks he’s branding her, but that imagery doesn’t stop the spark of pleasure when he slowly, purposefully thrusts into her. His palms brusquely claim her backside as he rocks against her, stroking her open to the intrusion until he’s finally all the way in, his hips fused to her skin. 

Turning her chin against her shoulder, she peeks from beneath hooded eyelids to see him bending over her, his expression lax with pleasure. His weight settles on top of her, pinning her helpless between the pillow keeping her arched up, and his hips crushing her back down. His hands graze along her forearms before curling around her wrists, pinning them against the sheets. She’s trapped, in every way, willingly. 

His hips roll languidly against her, creating sweet, aching friction that pushes a moan to her lips. His breaths rush hot against her cheek, interrupted only by her name, muttered in a strangled grunt. His lips press wet and hungry against the curve of her jaw, teeth nipping at her as brutal, undeniable need grows where bodies merge and swell. 

Grunting, he rocks harder against her. Their flesh smacks with each meeting, and she moans out at the hard jut of his cock deep inside her. The sounds and urgency have not changed with their souls, but it’s hard to ignore the voice of reason in the back of her mind now that the haze of pleasure is gone from her brain. 

She presses her face into the sheets, praying for those seconds of mindless pleasure to return, for that amnesia that allowed her to unravel like loose yarn under his caress. In the dark, she can dream; in the light, they’re nothing but two lost people - a collection of bones and broken hearts - striving to get back what they’ll never have again. They’re huddled in the shadows, but behind her eyelids, the sunrise is beginning to dawn, casting illumination on the brutal, ugly truth - their skin, their bodies may need this connection, but their hearts have already turned their backs and walked away. 

“Francis … Francis …” She comes awake, gasping his name into the sheets. 

His every thrust jars her to the bone, pain and pleasure ricocheting like stray bullets through her chest. Misty tears press hot to the corners of her eyes. 

Gradually, he eases his punishing rhythm. His mouth presses at the back of her neck, and travels in a mess of hot, exhilarated breaths and smearing saliva to her cheek. He nuzzles against her, uttering a low, clipped moan. 

“Claire …” 

She squeezes her eyelids shut against the sting of emotion. “Just … hurry.” 

“Are you all right?” 

“Fine.” She whispers. Urging her hips back against him, she feels his cock swell within her. “I know you’re close. Please, just finish.” 

His fingers flex around her wrists, but she can sense the power seeping from his grasp. 

“Claire, you said stay.” 

“I did. Now finish.” 

He draws in a deep breath, but argues no further. 

His thrusting resumes, shallow but swift. They’re both silent, lips buttoned over moans, as he pushes himself quickly to the edge. It’s not long before the steady blows of his hips turn to urgent, frenetic race to claim the climax. His hips lock against her as a shudder ripples through him, the first fiery touches of release taking him apart. 

Claire keeps her eyes clamped shut as his moans burst past his lips, and his cock spills hot, slick release into her. He grinds against her for a long, unbearable moment before he pulls back, leaving her void and aching. 

He rolls off of her, and onto the sheets beside her, grunting through the last aftershocks of orgasm. 

She doesn’t move. She can feel his release trickling from inside her, forever marking her. She can wash away the evidence, but not the memory. Regret climbs like ivy up her chest, breaking past her ribs, into her heart and brain. In seconds, it smothers her, and it’s all she can do not to heave out the sob growing in her chest. 

His fingertips brush her shoulder, and she flinches. 

“Claire?” 

His voice reaches past the din of shame in her mind, calling her back from reality into the the downy folds of memory. The past, stretching out behind them, is contained in her name, whispered like a prayer. 

Lifting her face from the sheets, she dares to meet his gaze. 

He rolls to his side against her, his fingers clutching her jaw. “Did I hurt you?” 

She closes her eyes. “No.” 

“Do you regret it?” 

She presses her lips together, her humiliation compounding beneath the glare of a direct question. 

At length, she hears the sheets rustle as he sits up. 

“I’ll go.” 

The mattress dips and settles as he rises from the bed, and retrieves his trousers from the floor. 

She rolls over, and sits up slowly, scraping her bangs back from her eyes. She’s half-dizzy with lingering pleasure, and the disorienting mix of need and shame. But she can see him clearly, and his disappointment. 

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs. “I shouldn’t have let you …” 

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.” 

His gaze his cold and unwavering as he pulls the drawstring of his pants tight. 

“We promised things would be different, and we should have kept that agreement.” He adds, “I take full blame. I came in here, I locked the door-”

“Francis …” 

She says his name without thinking, as she so often does when she wants to say something to change the facts, but she knows words are only that - words, pitiful and useless and blunt instruments that try in vain to describe the yearning of the heart. 

Their gazes meet across the room, past the shadows. Only daylight could have made the truth more clear. 

She swallows thickly, around the lump in the back of her throat. 

“I love you.” She whispers. 

Words. Three small, helpless words. But he knows just what she means. She does love him - she always has, and she always will - but they promised things would be different. And they have to be. If they’re meant to survive this election, they  _ have  _ to be. 

He nods. “I should go.” 

And before she can take up any other valiant but bitter collusion of words, he turns and leaves the room, shutting the door firmly on his heels. 

She’s left in the sheets, with his release still inside her, the impressions of his hands on her body, his possession in her skin. 

Breaking into motion, she jumps up from the bed, and darts across the room to the bathroom. She turns the shower water on hot, and steps beneath the burning spray. She can only pray it washes away her this longing, this sadness, this desire for things that can only hurt her. She closes her eyes, and leans into the cool ceramic tile of the wall, imagining that one day, this night will be in the past just like their long-lost love. Her heavy sigh is lost in the pounding spray, and her tears in the water trickling down her cheeks. 

 

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](http://clairehales.tumblr.com//)!


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